Into the Crossfire (3 page)

"Have dinner with me," he repeated. Okay, so it hadn't been an auditory

hallucination.

Her mouth opened and absolutely nothing came out.

Have dinner with him? She didn't know him, knew nothing about him

except for the fact that he looked...rough. Instinctively, she stepped back.

He was watching her carefully, and nodded sharply, as if she'd said

something he agreed with. "You don't know me and you're right to be cautious. So

let's start with the basics." He held out a huge, callused, suntanned and none-tooclean hand. "Sam Reston, at your service."

Sam Reston? Sam Reston?

Nicole couldn't help it. Her eyes flicked to the big shiny brass plaque, right

next to the door across the hall, bearing the name of what she understood to be the

most successful company in the building. RESTON S ECURITY. He followed her

gaze and waited until she looked back at him.

Maybe he was the company's owner's black-sheep cousin. Or brother. Or

something.

It had to be asked. "Are you, um, a relative of Mr. Reston?"

He shook his head slowly, dark eyes never leaving hers. "Company belongs

to me."

Oh. Wow. How embarrassing.

13

He was standing there, hand still out. Nicole's parents had drummed

manners into her. She'd shaken hands with tyrants and dictators and suspected

terrorists in embassies all over the world. It was literally impossible for her not to

put her hand in his.

She did it gingerly, and his hand just swallowed hers up. The skin of his

palm was very warm, callused and tough. For a moment she was frightened that he

might be one of those men who had to prove his manliness by the strength of his

handshake. This man's hand could crush hers without difficulty and she made her

living at the keyboard.

To her everlasting relief, he merely squeezed gently for three seconds then

released her hand.

"N-Nice to meet you," she stammered, because really, what else could she

say? "Um--" And she so desperately needed to get into her office. Now. "My name

is Nicole Pearce."

"Yes, I know, Ms. Pearce." He bent his head formally. His eyes were very

dark and--she now realized--very intelligent. "So--as to my price, let's see if I can

convince you I'm not a security risk."

He pulled out a slim, hugely expensive cell phone. One Nicole had coveted

madly, both for its function and style, but had decided against as being simply way

out of her current financial league. He pressed two buttons--whoever he was

calling was on speed dial--and waited. She could hear the phone ringing, then a

deep male voice answering, "This better be good."

"I've got a lady here I want to ask out for dinner but she doesn't know me

and she's not too sure of my good character, Hector, so I called you for an

endorsement. Show your face and talk to the lady. Her name's Nicole. Nicole

Pearce." He waited a beat. "And say good things."

Nicole accepted the cell phone gingerly. The video display showed the

darkly handsome face of San Diego's brand-new mayor, Hector Villarreal, dressed

in a bright orange golf shirt, holding a golf club over his shoulder, out on the links,

eyes crinkling against the bright sunlight. "Hello, Ms. Pearce." The deep voice

sounded cheerful.

She cleared her voice and tried not to sound wary. "Mr. Mayor."

"So." He was smiling, eyebrows high. "You want to go out to dinner with

Sam Reston? You sure you want to?" There was humor in the faintly-accented

voice.

"Well, actually, uh--"

But it was no use talking to a politician, they talked right over you.

"Don't worry about it. Sam's a great guy, he'll treat you right, no question.

But I really do need to warn you of something, Ms. Pearce, and it's serious."

Her heart thudded and she looked up into Sam Reston's hard, impassive

face. He could hear perfectly, since Mayor Villarreal was talking at the top of his

voice.

"Yes, Mr. Mayor?"

14

"Don't ever play poker with him. Man's a shark." A loud guffaw and the

connection was broken.

Nicole slowly slid the phone closed and looked up at Sam Reston. He was

standing utterly still; the only thing moving was that enormous chest as he

breathed quietly. He had the extreme good taste not to look smug or self-satisfied.

There was no expression at all on that hard, dark, bearded face. He simply watched

her to see what she would do.

She held out the phone by one end and he took it by the other. For a

moment they were connected by five inches of warm plastic, then Nicole dropped

her hand.

They looked at each other, Nicole frozen to the spot, Lowlife--no, Sam

Reston--as still as a dark marble statue. There was no sound, absolutely nothing.

The building could have been deserted, there weren't even the normal sounds of

air-conditioning or the elevators swooshing up and down.

Everything was still, in suspended animation.

Nicole finally took a deep breath.

Ooooo-kay.

Well, it looked like Lowlife--Sam Reston--wasn't a serial killer or a drug

dealer. Actually, he, um, was the owner of a company she knew to be very

successful. The success of Reston Security constituted a significant portion of the

gossip machine that was alive and well in the Morrison Building. Reston Security

was certainly much more successful than Wordsmith, which was clinging to life

by the occasional IV line of new clients.

If the extremely dangerous-looking, seriously scruffy man in front of her,

watching her quietly, was Sam Reston of Reston Security, then surely she could

do this.

A deal was a deal. If he could somehow open her door and allow her to

make her videoconference call, she would owe him far more than could be repaid

by a couple of hours spent consuming a meal.

He was watching her quietly, and standing oh-so still.

9:23. She took a deep breath. "Okay, you have a dinner date, for an evening

of your choosing." She gestured behind her. "But you're going to have to open my

door, Mr. Reston, right now. I have a very important business call coming in at

9:30 sharp, and if I don't make that call, then our deal is off."

He dipped his head gravely. "Fair enough. And the name is Sam."

"Nicole." Nicole gritted her teeth, glancing at the big clock at the end of the

corridor and wincing. However Sam Reston was going to get her into her office,

he'd have to do it in the next six minutes or she was toast. "I wonder...is there a

building super with a master key?"

"No." He shook his head. "So--we have the deal?"

"Um, yes. We do." Nicole barely refrained from tapping her toe.

"You'll go out to dinner with me tonight?" he pressed. At her look, he

shrugged broad shoulders. "Ever since I left the Navy and became a businessman,

15

I've learned to nail agreements down."

Actually, he looked like the kind of man who would enforce deals at the

end of a gun. But she'd promised.

"As a new businesswoman myself, I've learned to keep my word. So, yes, I

accept your invitation. Now, please open my door. And if you kick it open, I'll

expect you to pay damages."

"Of course," he murmured.

Nicole shot a glance at her watch. Damn. It had taken her several days to

set up this conference call. The client was a Wall Street "Master of the Universe,"

almost impossible to pin down to an appointment.

The "Master" in question was an anal retentive and when he said a 9:30

conference call, it would be 9:30 to the second, and she knew that he'd never call

again if she wasn't on the line. In a harsh, nasal New Yawk accent, the words

spilling out almost more quickly than she could understand them, he'd told her he

couldn't have anyone wasting his time because his time was worth at least a

thousand dollars a minute.

The message couldn't have been clearer. Be at the end of the line at 9:30 or

else.

Nicole worked with two retired professors of economics, one of whom had

been born in Russia and had come to the States as a teenager, and another who had

studied in Moscow for ten years. They would be perfect for the big, long-term

translation job and she had every intention of asking the Master of the Universe

top prices. Her commission off the deal would go a long way toward paying for

the night nurse.

Four minutes to go. She was going to lose this appointment, and probably

the client. So much for...

She looked up from her wrist and blinked.

Her door was wide open, her tiny, pretty office beckoning beyond it.

She turned her stunned gaze to Sam Reston, who was straightening and

moving away from her door. "How did you do that? Did you just pick the lock?"

Surely picking a lock required some kind of effort? Some time? In the movies, the

thief jiggled at the lock forever.

He wasn't looking smug or even proud of himself. In fact, he was scowling.

"You haven't improved on the building security at all," he said, his deep voice

making it an accusation.

"Um, no." Nicole felt like she'd fallen into a rabbit hole. The real-estate

agent had stressed the excellent building security and had dwelled lovingly on the

quality of the office locks. "Was I supposed to?"

"Well, sure. When it's as crappy as this." His scowl deepened as he

pocketed something. Though she'd love to see if it was a lockpick, she didn't have

time to waste.

Another glance at her watch and she hurried into her office. She was just

barely going to make the videoconference.

16

She had less than two minutes to spare.

"Thank you, Mr. Reston. So I guess--"

"Sam."

"Sam." She gritted her teeth. A minute and a half left. "Tell me where to

meet you and when."

His scowl grew deeper. "Absolutely not. I'll pick you up at your house."

There wasn't time to argue, not even time to roll her eyes. "Okay. Shall we

say seven? I live on Mulberry Street. Three forty-six Mulberry Street. Is that

okay?"

"Fine. I'll be there at seven to pick you up." A muscle in his jaw rippled,

though the words were low and quiet.

Did he live far away? Well, if he had to drive across town, he'd asked for it.

She'd been willing to meet him at the restaurant.

He turned away, she closed the door and the phone rang.

Nicole leaped to pick it up, heard the Master's nasal tones. She'd made it!

The price had been high, but she'd made it.

17

Well, that worked out just fine.

Sam Reston sat down behind his desk, looking at the day's reports, but all

he saw in front of him was the delicious Nicole Pearce, with her exquisite face and

hourglass figure, wrapped in classy clothes. An aristocratic wet dream.

He'd been waiting for this moment since he'd first seen her moving into that

cubbyhole across the hallway from his own five-room headquarters.

He knew her office was small because it had been shown to him before he

settled on his own quarters. Her office wouldn't have been big enough for his files.

She ran a translation business. Sam knew exactly zilch about the translating

business. Maybe you didn't need much space to translate French into English.

Or Spanish into Russian. Or Italian into German. Or Norwegian into

Portuguese.

She covered them all, an amazing configuration of languages, as her

sharply designed website told him. He'd looked at her list of collaborators and it

was 120 strong, each one with an impressive resume, scattered all over the world.

If there'd been translation work available on the space station, she'd probably have

a collaborator there, too.

He'd nearly laughed at Nicole Pearce's expression when he'd named his

price for picking that ridiculous lock of hers--dinner out with him.

Granted, he thought, as he looked at his big, battered shit-kickers now

comfortably settled on his shiny, expensive desktop, he did look like a scumbag.

Well, you wouldn't want to be his enemy. But Nicole Pearce wasn't his enemy.

Shit, no.

He'd been aching to touch that creamy white skin ever since he'd first seen

her, and when he finally got his chance, he'd make sure his hands were clean. And

gentle. He had strong hands, but he knew when to curb his strength. The idea of

hurting any woman made him physically ill, but the idea of somehow hurting

Nicole...no, hurting her was not in the cards.

Fucking her...now that was another matter.

The lock on Nicole Pearce's office door had been so easy to pick, it was

embarrassing. It had taken two seconds, tops, while she'd been checking the time

on that fancy wristwatch.

The memory of her slack-jawed surprise when she looked up to see him

opening her door had him grinning as he bent forward to check his e-mail. This

afternoon he'd get a haircut and a shave and then a half-hour shower before his

date, but right now, he wanted to get some work out of the way.

He scanned the subject lines of his e-mails, giving a quick fist pump in the

air when he saw NIGHTINGALE LANDED.

18

He scanned the e-mail, nodding with satisfaction. Twenty-four-year-old

Amanda Rogers was now settled in her new life, under a new name and with a

new job in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho.